Storm Child (5 page)

He waved a hand at her. ‘Get out
now.  I want to be alone.’

Polly looked as though she would
say something else, but then turned to leave. 

‘Polly…’

She glanced over her shoulder.

‘You find out where that baby is…
and I’ll look after you.’

She nodded shortly, and then
softly closed the door. 

Eight

Charlotte woke the next morning to the sound of her mother
singing in the kitchen.  She rubbed her eyes and swung her feet out of
bed, wincing as the cold floor sent shivers up her back.  Winter had well
and truly arrived, and quickly. Outside the small window of her room, the heath
was dressed in a glittering coat of frost, a shining dusting of crystals
sparkling in a low sun set in a sky of the freshest blue.  That was how
days like this felt to Charlotte, fresh, like the world had been given a scrub to
make it shine again. 

She clambered back into bed a
while longer, gazing round her room as it was filled by the soap-washed
sunlight, smiling to herself as her mother sang an old hymn. Eventually,
another sound joined it, the excited babble and nonsense chattering of a baby.
It sounded as though the little one was trying to join in. Charlotte smiled to
herself as she listened, and then as all the events of the previous day came
back to her and filled her with excitement, was persuaded to try to leave her
bed again. She leapt down quickly and rummaged in her cupboard for a woollen
shawl, hopping from one foot to another as she did to keep warm.

When she entered the kitchen, her
mother had already started the fire and it was burning, new and warm. 
Charlotte joined the baby, who was sitting on the rug in front of it.  Her
mother frowned and pointed to Charlotte’s feet.

‘Bed socks?’ 

‘Sorry.’ She looked sheepish. ‘I
don’t know where I left them.’

‘For goodness sake, you know you
must stay warm. You must search for them after breakfast and always wear them.’

‘Yes, mama.’  

‘Would you like porridge for
breakfast?’ Charlotte nodded. ‘It will take some time for us to get used to
being three again,’ her mother mused as she stirred the pot over the stove.

Charlotte hadn’t thought of it
that way. In some ways, this baby would fill the hole that George had
left.  Thinking about it reminded her of the illness they had both been
struck with but only she had survived. Her hand went to her face and traced the
small round scars left as a reminder of what she had endured. The marks grew
paler as the months passed, but Dr Weston had told her she would have them
forever. Charlotte’s mother was considered beautiful by many, and in her
moments of vanity, Charlotte had often thought that she would become a
beautiful young woman too. Not now, though.

Her mother interrupted her
thoughts by bringing a steaming bowl of porridge to the table. Charlotte took
the bowl to the rug in front of the fire. In company, Charlotte always had to
sit politely at the table, but in recent months, her mother had been happy
enough to let her eat this way whenever she pleased.

‘On a chair please, this is hot
and there are little hands around now.’

Charlotte looked up in surprise,
but then did as she was told. ‘Yes, mother. Of course.’

‘And when you’ve finished that,
you can get dressed and fetch some water. Georgina needs a bath.’

Charlotte nearly choked on her
porridge. Georgina? She spluttered, not able to find the right words: ‘But….did
you, I mean…when did you decide...’

‘It’s so strange. When I woke
this morning, it was in my head.’

Strange wasn’t the word for it,
Charlotte thought as she watched as her mother bend down to pick up the newly
named Georgina, swinging the child round to make her giggle. ‘And,’ Charlotte’s
mother added, ‘it seems as though Georgina likes it too.’

Charlotte worked the pump on the lane, barely paying any
heed to her task. She couldn’t stop thinking about the strange effect the baby was
having on their home. Only a few hours ago she had been filled with excitement
for the happiness that the new arrival might bring to her and her mother, but
now her thoughts were tainted with unease. There was something unnatural about
the things that were happening, and no matter how much she tried to tell
herself how ridiculous the idea was, she couldn’t shake it.  Everybody
knew that people with magic roamed the country, small in number but feared for
the power they wielded. Most in the countryside, in villages like Charlotte
lived in, turned a blind eye to the problem and hoped never to run into such a
person, particularly one who might harbour ill-intent. But some chose to
persecute and shun them. Charlotte had often thought that perhaps these people
were the real problem, forcing those with magic to hide it from society and
making them so bitter that ill-intent was all that was left in their souls.
Whatever she thought, the fact was that the village had not seen evidence of
one in their midst since Charlotte could remember.  Had she and her mother
unwittingly taken one in? And the question of why Georgina had been abandoned
still hung over her too. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered
what, exactly, their new houseguest really was.

Nine

A grey dawn saw Isaac wake.  He lay still for a long
time, staring at the pattern on the ceiling from the shadow of the old tree
outside his bare window. His breath curled into the air above him, and he
noticed ice coating the inside of the window pane. It wasn’t the first morning
he had woken to this, and as it was the beginning of winter, it certainly
wouldn’t be the last. As many other winters had passed in this fashion, it
wasn’t something that Isaac worried about.  Across his field of vision, a
spider scuttled down the wall, finally taking refuge somewhere beneath his
bed.  Familiar shapes in the cracked and crumbling plaster held his
attention as he tried to focus on bringing the previous day’s events back to
his memory.  He felt at his head.  The skin had been broken, but it
didn’t feel too bad.  Not as bad as the huge swelling that made him wince
when he applied even the gentlest pressure. 

He suddenly shot upright.

‘Poll,’ he breathed, and kneeled
on his bed to look out of the window. 

Down below, Polly was in the yard
grooming Ernesto’s horse while Annie beat out a rug at the back door that led
to the kitchen.  Isaac heaved a sigh of relief and allowed himself to
climb back under his thin blankets turning on to his side to avoid pressure on
his injured head.  Ernesto would want him up soon, but nausea was
beginning to bite, and the beginnings of a ferocious headache already. 
The way Isaac felt, any extra time in bed was worth risking Ernesto’s wrath.

He recalled overhearing a
conversation that Polly had had with Annie.  Someone had mentioned a
robbery, or had he just imagined that?  More fragments came back to him;
some that made his face burn in shame and humiliation.  Polly wouldn’t
have said those things about him, surely?  He felt at his head
again.  He was probably having a funny turn.  Polly and him, they
were meant for each other.  Fate had thrown them together for a reason,
and no one knew what made Polly tick like he did.  Surely that counted for
something?

The door to his room flew
open.  For a moment, Polly stood in the doorway, a quiet smile lighting
her face. Then, she seemed to shake herself. ‘You still remember who I am?’

He raised his head slightly.
‘You’re the one sired by the devil himself,’ he grinned.

She pouted.  ‘Your head’s
alright then. 
Ol
’ Ernie wants to see
you.’ 

Isaac’s head throbbed as Ernesto paced in circles around
him.  Resisting the urge to clutch it, he cast his gaze to the floor,
trying his best to look respectful, as his guardian vented his rage.

‘How could you be so
careless?  That was a day’s earnings we’ve lost!’

‘I didn’t see him.’

‘That’s because you wander about
the place as if you only have your own world to think about,’ Ernesto
snapped.  ‘If you don’t start proving yourself more useful, you’ll be out
on the streets again where I found you.’

‘I do a good turn, don’t I?’

Isaac looked up to find that
Ernesto had stopped pacing and was now standing in front of him, his
calculating stare boring into him. ‘Good enough for a second rate trickster, I
suppose.’

Isaac forced himself to match
Ernesto’s fierce gaze.  Whatever was said, he knew that Ernesto needed
him. 

Ernesto took a seat at his
desk.  ‘Make the money back and I won’t have to let the wolves nip at
you.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t care how.  If you
don’t want your liver to be a dog’s dinner then you’ll find a way.’

Annie gently untangled the butterfly from the web. 
Its
once vibrant blue wings were flaking, almost see-through
in places, the body a dried husk.  She stared at it, only her eyes
betraying her sadness.  She glanced around the stable.  Polly was
still outside with the horse, singing a strange sort of sea shanty as she
worked; Annie couldn’t imagine where she would have learned it from. 
Annie presumed that Ernesto was in his study, as he usually was, and that Isaac
was still with him.

She lifted the butterfly up,
close to her lips.  ‘Live,’ she whispered, and waited. 

The wings transformed as she
watched, lustrous and vivid as they had been once before.  Then they began
to move, slowly, until they became elegant sweeps and the butterfly rose
towards the loft of the stable.  ‘Not there, silly,’ Annie said with a
smile, and the creature dived again, circled her head once, and then climbed
through the doors and into the grey skies.  Annie lay back in the hay and
closed her eyes. 

‘What you
doin
’,
lazy bones?’ Polly huffed from the doorway.

‘Just cleaning the straw out,’
Annie said, scrambling to her feet.

‘With your backside?’ Polly
snapped. ‘Hurry up, Chester’s ready to come back in.’

Annie grabbed the broom and swept
the floor, hurriedly grabbing armfuls of fresh straw from the nearest trough
and spreading it over the stone flags.  She looked up at the sound of
Chester’s hooves ringing on the courtyard. 

‘You done ‘ere?’  Polly
asked as she held the horse steady.

‘Yes.’

Polly stroked a steadying hand
over the muzzle of the horse. 

‘Don’t you worry about where your
sister is?’ Polly cast a sideways glance as she led the horse into the newly
cleaned stall.

Annie shook her head. 
‘She’s safe, I know she is.’

‘You said you never saw who took
her in, but I followed you out last night when you snuck off.’

‘How did you –’ Annie began.

Polly tapped the side of her
nose. ‘
Nothin
’ gets past me. You was watching a
little place on the heath.’

‘That weren’t the reason I was
watching it.’

‘So you reckon
goin
’ out in the dead of night to sit
freezin
’
outside a house is sport?’ Polly wiped her hands down her dress and frowned.

‘I don’t know if she is there or
not,’ Annie said.

Polly regarded her thoughtfully
for a moment.  ‘Like I told you before, she
coulda
stayed ‘ere with us.  You wouldn’t have had to worry about her then.’

Annie shook her head.

‘Why not?’ Polly pressed.
‘Ernesto weren’t
goin
’ to hurt her.  She’s got
real magic, he’d look after her better than he would us lot.’

‘You know what happens if people
find out you got magic.’

‘Ah, that’s rot.’ Polly folded
her arms. ‘Nobody tries to snatch us and we do magic every day on the streets.’

‘That’s because people know ours
ain’t
real.’

‘Our tricks are that bad, are
they?’

Annie blushed.

‘It’s alright,’ Polly
smiled.  ‘I
ain’t
offended.  Anyone who
watches Isaac show off would be able to tell he
ain’t
got real magic.  It’s just the ladies what throw him money cos he’s easy
on the eye.’ She sniffed and wiped her nose across the back of her hand.
‘Besides, if kids are snatched for magic, that’s all the more reason for you to
keep the nipper ‘ere with us where we can keep an eye on her.’

‘It’s only a small village,’
Annie said. ‘An’ I think the people that live there are decent.  I reckon
whoever got her is
lookin
’ after her.’

Polly narrowed her eyes. 
‘You
do
know who has her, don’t
ya
? Don’t lie
to me.’

‘No, Poll, I swear I don’t. 
You won’t tell Ernesto, will you?’

Polly regarded her steadily.
‘Perhaps if you told Ernesto that you had magic he’d settle at that an’ forget
about the baby.’

‘I don’t.’ Annie cast her gaze to
the ground.  ‘I don’t have magic, only Georgina does.’

‘You got the same mama.’

‘We have.’ Annie said, looking up
again. ‘But that don’t mean we both get magic.  You know it don’t work
like that.’

‘So, you’re telling me you
ain’t
got magic?’

Annie nodded. 

Polly moved towards her and laid
a hand on her arm. ‘You can trust me, I’m
ol
’
reliable Poll, remember?’ Annie looked up into her eyes and nodded
uncertainly.  ‘So if you wanted to share your secrets, I wouldn’t tell a
soul.’

Annie stared at her.  Then
she opened her mouth to speak…

‘Pleased to see me?’ Isaac
strolled towards them.  Polly took a step away from Annie with a look of
vexation. 

‘You know how to make a girl
fright, don’t
ya
?’ she snapped, glaring at him.

‘Charmin’.’ He grinned. ‘I
thought you’d be glad to see I’m still alive.’

‘When you bring me a bag of coins
and enough silk to make me a hundred dresses I might be glad to see you alive,’
Polly huffed. 

Isaac winked. ‘
Anythin
’ for you, Poll.’

‘I thought Ernie would have
flayed the skin off
yer
back.  What’s he said?’

Isaac’s grin faded. ‘Wants me to
get the money back.’

‘What are you
goin
’
to do?’ Annie asked.

He shrugged.  I’ll have to
go out
blaggin
’, won’t I?’

Annie’s eyes widened.  ‘What
if you get caught?’

‘
Ain’t
never been caught before, don’t see why I should be now.’

‘Before?’

Isaac’s expression darkened. ‘How
d’you
think I got along before Ernesto took me
in?  A nipper’s got to eat.’

‘We can do some extra tricks,’
Annie ventured uncertainly.

Isaac shook his head. ‘Ta for the
offer, but we barely have enough time to fit in what we got to do now.  This
way’s better, a
mornin’s
work an’ I’ll have what we
need.’

Annie cast a glance at Polly who
merely nodded. 

‘Watch your back, you great
lump,’ Polly said, turning to Isaac. 

He nodded and flashed her another
wink before heading out towards the courtyard gates.

Isaac leaned against the wall of the tavern, watching as the
world moved around him.  He hadn’t yet fixed on a target.  Despite
the coldness of the day, his palms were sweating and he rubbed them across his
jacket again.  The air in this district of
Uxmouth
was thick with smells that made his already delicate stomach turn: rotting
meat, animal dung, cheap, sickly colognes.  They were smells that brought
old memories washing over him, memories that he did not want: seven-year-old
Isaac, newly orphaned, begging and stealing on the streets around this very
tavern just to survive.  But he had chosen this spot today for precisely
that reason; he knew every twisting alleyway, every bolthole, every abandoned
building and he needed to make sure there was somewhere to run if he was
spotted.   He pulled his faded cloth cap lower over his eyes and
resumed his study of the crowds.

A few minutes later he saw what
he was looking for.  The man emerged from the tavern – he was portly, his
nose bright red, unsteady on his feet.  Isaac’s usual genial demeanour was
replaced with grim determination; this was not something he took pleasure
in.  Bouncing himself off the wall, he strode towards the man.

‘Excuse me, sir; I don’t suppose
you could direct me to
Blacktower
road, could you?’

The man staggered to a halt and
squinted up at him. ‘
Blacktower
you say?’

Isaac nodded, grimacing at the
stench of old alcohol that greeted him as the man opened his mouth. The man
spun slightly and Isaac gently pressed his fingertips to the nearest pocket.

‘Let me see… Yes, if you take a
left down here, you’ll see a sign for Market square…’ He turned to face Isaac
again, who gave a polite smile.

‘Someone else told me it were
that way…’ Isaac said, subtly guiding the man by the elbow to turn in the other
direction so that he could access the other pocket.

‘No, no, my dear boy, completely
wrong.’

‘Oh,’ Isaac said.  ‘Are you
sure?’

The man hiccupped and then
nodded. ‘It’s that way,’ he said, flinging his arm in the original direction. 

‘Then I’ll go that way,’ Isaac
said, and tipped his cap.  ‘Good day to
ya
, kind
sir.’

Without waiting for a reply,
Isaac made his way down a narrow alley running the length of the tavern. 
Once out of sight of the main street, he reached into his pocket and pulled out
a leather coin purse.  A quick inspection of the contents caused him to
groan. There wasn’t nearly enough. The rush of adrenaline that had coursed
through him only a few minutes ago subsided and the full force of his throbbing
head came back.  He clapped a hand to his temple and massaged it in a bid
to alleviate the pain. Then he took a deep breath and tried to focus again on
his task.  He had hoped that one purse would be enough.  For a second
blag, he didn’t dare return to his original location.  He stood for a
moment, deep in thought, finally starting out in the direction of the quay.

He could taste salt on his lips as he waited outside the
Queen’s Head.  This tavern was frequented by seafarers and was rougher, if
it was possible, than the one he had just left, but at least the air on the
quay was clearer.  Every patron that left or went in was muscled and
mean-looking.  It was a riskier strategy, but Isaac knew that many of them
would be going into that tavern newly paid and one good purse was all he
needed. 

A bearded man, aged around sixty
but still hardy-looking, staggered from the door.  Isaac marched over and
collided with him. 

‘I’m
terrible
sorry,’ he said, catching the man by the arm and brushing him down. 

The man swore and tried to swipe
at him, but Isaac ducked away easily. 

‘I said I was sorry, didn’t I?’
Isaac frowned and then turned, starting at a brisk walk.  Before he had
gone a few feet, there was a shout.